


There's An Enochian Incantation

by ashitanoyuki



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Gore, Hell Flashbacks, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Other, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sam Winchester Speaks Enochian, Sam-Centric, Season/Series 07, Stockholm Syndrome, Triggers, sexual assault as performed by a hallucination (which friggin counts as sexual assault fight me)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 08:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11917395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashitanoyuki/pseuds/ashitanoyuki
Summary: Dean finds a spell to create a weapon to banish leviathans. It involves an Enochian incantation. The last thing Sam's already-fragile mind needs is to hear words in the language of angels.





	There's An Enochian Incantation

Lucifer’s having a playful day. If Sam’s being honest with himself, playful days are the easiest. It’s far easier to ignore the extensive behavioral training drilled into him in the cage when Lucifer is joking and snarky, looking to poke and prod and force a reaction. The downside, of course, is that when Lucifer feels playful, he tends to get _interactive._

“Come _on,_ Sammy,” the hallucination _(and it is a hallucination, it’s not real)_ whines, dropping down in the chair next to Sam and kicking its feet up onto the open book before him. “Research is soooooo dull. It’s not like you two mooks are gonna find dick on Dick in some book written, what, a few hundred years ago?”

He can’t see the text beneath Lucifer’s too-solid boots. Sam grimaces and grips his palm, seeking out that beautiful, peaceful flare of pain. Lucifer’s boots flicker, then disappear with the rest of his form.

Not real. Sam knows that, he does, but it’s always a relief to get a real reminder.

Across the motel table, Dean clears his throat. “Hey,” he says when Sam looks up. “You good?”

“Relatively speaking,” Sam replies, though he can’t help but glance at the chair next to him. Empty. Good. He marks his page in the book and closes the dusty old tome. “Why?”

Dean grins and holds up the enormous scroll of weathered parchment he’s been working on for the better part of the week. “Finally, a little payoff. Maybe.” He rises, and Sam winces as he hears his brother’s spine snap-crackle-pop.

_Snap-crackle-pop, a sound too innocuous for the pain that follows. He gasps, blood and bile bubbling up around his lips. Michael – or the Brute, as Lucifer sometimes calls him – stares impassively down at his broken body. “We’ll see if my brother’s ready to talk to me now,” he snarls, his harsh, measured syllables grating over the boy’s ears._

“– Sammy? You with me?”

Sam jerks back to attention. “Yeah. Sorry,” he says, offering a shaky smile. “You said something about payoff?”

Dean nods and taps the scroll in front of him. “This thing’s got a huge, heavy-duty banishing enchantment. And I mean _seriously_ heavy-duty,” he says. “Yeah, there’s some stuff that’s gonna be hard to get – like, uh…” He wrinkles his nose. “The skull of an infant that died three days after birth, for one. And we’ll need to charge the skull with the blood of whatever we want to banish – so, in this case, black goo. Then there’s an Enochian incantation to seal it, and bam!” He gestures wildly, grinning. “Enchanted object that looks like it can banish the leviathans back to Purgatory, just by aiming it at them. And yeah, then we still have to track them all down, but –”

Enochian. Sam’s heart picks up in his chest, ta-thump, ta-thump, ta-thump. But it’s _in_ his chest, not outside while Lucifer bites into it like an apple, so he’s okay. He’s fine.

It’s not real.

“Enochian, huh?” Sam jumps as Lucifer presses against his back. The cold that seeps through Sam’s shirt is a harsh contrast against Lucifer’s lukewarm, wet breath in his ear. “Well, isn’t that a stroke of luck. You were speaking it like a native speaker before that horseman so rudely took away my favorite toy.”

 _Breathe._ Sam forces himself to keep his eyes on his brother, to not pay attention as the hallucination begins to rock its hips slightly, grinding against the back of Sam’s chair. It could be a lot worse. Nothing’s worse than Lucifer appeared behind him in the shower.

Well, okay. _Nothing_ is a pretty strong word.

“Okay, seriously, enough.” Sam jumps slightly, startled at the bite in his brother’s voice. “This is like the fifth time today you’ve checked out on me,” Dean says, the worry in his eyes belying his sharp, commanding tone. “You’re seeing him today, more than normal.” Dean holds up a hand before Sam can open his mouth to protest. “Don’t. Eyes and ears on me, Sam. I’m real. He’s not.”

“Oh, but baby, I _feel_ real, don’t I?” the hallucination murmurs, trailing a hand across Sam’s clavicle, fingers cold enough to burn. Sam shivers, his skin prickling in the wake of the familiar, unwanted touch. Lucifer slides a hand beneath Sam’s layered shirts and easily finds his right nipple, tweaking it gently.

Don’t react. “You’re right,” Sam admits. “He doesn’t want to leave me alone today.” He never wants to leave Sam alone, but today is especially bad. Lucifer laughs lightly at Sam’s words and pinches his nipple hard, his other hand coming up to stroke Sam’s hair with a mockery of affection.

Dean shakes his head. “He doesn’t want anything, Sam. Except maybe to get out of the pit, because guess what, he’s still there,” he says, gently, almost explanatorily.

Sam raises an eyebrow and offers his brother what he hopes is an unimpressed look. “I know that,” he snaps. _“I_ know that. My lizard-brain doesn’t, okay? Let’s just… move on.”

“Lizard-brain, you know, I like that,” the hallucination murmurs. “You are just a scared little animal, aren’t you, Sam?” It pulls its hands from Sam and walks around to Sam’s side. Sam has less than a second of relief before the hallucination’s hands are on his thighs, forcing them apart and holding. Sam sees Dean frown and give him a quizzical look, and assumes that he did just actually spread his legs. Shit. That’s awkward.

Fortunately, Dean doesn’t ask any questions about that. “Okay,” he says finally. “So, I know this is kinda teetering on black magic, but I figure we don’t exactly need to kill a baby to get a skull, and I’ve got no problem bleeding a leviathan to make sure I’ve got a weapon that can kill them. Think it might work?” he asks, nodding at Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam says. Lucifer’s hands remain mercifully on his thighs, just kneading and squeezing, gripping and releasing, but the cold is beginning to seep through Sam’s jeans, and he would really, _really_ like an excuse to move.

“The Enochian spell looks legit,” Dean says. “Kinda wish Cas were here, ‘cause my pronunciation’s bound to be shit.”

“If –” Sam bites back a squeal as Lucifer lunges forward suddenly and chomps down hard on his inner thigh. Even through his jeans, it _hurts._ “If Cas were here, leviathans wouldn’t be our problem,” he manages. The hallucination chews his thigh a few times, then begins to almost-lovingly circle the torn fabric and bloody flesh with its forked tongue. Sam knows that when he next undresses, he’ll find the jeans fully intact, but that knowledge doesn’t stop him from feeling every drop of Lucifer’s unnaturally cool spit lave across his thigh. He shivers at the sensation.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Mr. Continuity,” he says. “How’s this sound? _Zien othil lonshitox vomsarg –”_

Later, Sam will realize that this is what caused his mind to flip. Not the torments he’d remembered from moment Cas broke his wall, not Lucifer’s constant presence and hands on his flesh, but these words, spoken in the only language he had spoken for thousands of years.

* * *

It is less cold than usual.

That is the first thing the boy notices. It is less cold, and he has never been taken to this stage of the world. The figure before him is unfamiliar, but Lucifer – and even sometimes Michael – occasionally take the faces of certain mud-monkeys like himself. He thinks he may have seen Michael take this green-eyed, speckle-faced form before, and tenses. Michael only comes to him when he is angry, which means the torments won’t end until he is obliterated. Still, it’s not his place to fight, so the boy keeps still, fighting the urge to cry. It won’t do any good, though it doesn’t do any better to hold back. Sometimes, on the occasions when he is left alone, he wonders why he fights the tears. It’s not as if Michael or Lucifer generally care if he cries.

“Sam?”

He freezes for a split second, because only Lucifer uses that word to refer to him. Michael just calls him boy, or mud-monkey, or you-insolent-bitch. So, it is Lucifer taking this form, for some reason. And the boy knows this tone, knows what Lucifer wants. That is the tone that calls for utter submission.

Lucifer, his God and his King and his Master, wants an obedience day – a day where the boy does not move unless Lucifer moves him, no matter the torments inflicted. He knows what to do. He sinks to his knees, making sure to point his feet so that the soles are exposed in case Lucifer wants to hit them. He keeps his legs spread, so that if Lucifer wants to caress or hit the dangling bits, access is unimpeded. The boy lets his hands fall open at his sides, palms out in obedient surrender, and lowers his head in subservience. Here, he is open and pliant for Lucifer to move him as desired.

He is covered in some sort of cloth, but that’s not terribly unusual. Sometimes, Lucifer prefers to strip him to nakedness. The boy knows better than to complain, even though the process of having cloth stripped from his body is, in many ways, worse than physical pain. Usually, when Lucifer strips him, he can’t quite manage to hold back the tears.

Lucifer says something in a language the boy doesn’t understand, and it is all he can do to keep from flinching. He knows that Lucifer doesn’t want him to flinch – any movement is struggling, and will be punished accordingly. He has learned that lesson well. He waits obediently for Lucifer to undress him, to bring wrath upon him. Selfishly, he hopes for ice and pain, or for fire and pain. They days when Lucifer brings him pleasure are almost unbearable, but he knows he must endure them, or meet his master’s anger.

“Sam!” He does flinch at that, then sucks in a breath, because that’s a strike against him. Strike one. Lucifer is on his knees before him, and that is different, so different, and the boy realizes that his master is playing a new game. He wants to wail, to scream and beg and cry, but Lucifer hasn’t given any indication that he wants noise, so the boy holds his position and bites back his whimpers. The punishment for unwanted noise... Few things are worse than the way Lucifer takes him apart when he’s been too loud.

A hand catches his chin, and he allows Lucifer to tilt his face up, staring at his master’s nose rather than his eyes, as is proper. Another string of unintelligible words, and then Lucifer grabs his hand and presses down hard. Pain flares, but it is hardly unendurable. The boy doesn’t move.

“Sammy, _c’mon Sam, come on, come back to me!”_

He wishes he knew what game Lucifer is playing. If he knew the rules, he could do it – he knows the rules for all their games. Something about Lucifer’s tone, though, makes him feel that he may have guessed wrong. Lucifer doesn’t want utter submission this time.

Oh, no. It’s a new game, and the boy doesn’t know the rules – strike two. Instinctively, he sucks in a sharp breath, then he flinches as he awaits the blow, and _damnit,_ that’s three strikes, three strikes and he’s out, three strikes and Lucifer will use his intestines as the rope to tie him down before stripping his skin from his muscles and his muscles from his bones, and it’s more than he deserves but he hates it, he’s selfish and he hates it! Unbidden, he takes another sharp breath, then another and another, and then the dam breaks and tears are flowing from his eyes. Unbidden, he screams and thrashes, and to his shock Lucifer backs away – but that can only mean worse things for the future. He needs to stop, he needs to control himself, he needs to regain composure before he increases his tally of sins in need of punishment!

But he can’t. He screams, and he rocks as he screams, and he cries as he rocks, and through it all, Lucifer doesn’t lay a hand on him. Lucifer just sits before the boy as he rocks and screams and cries until finally, _finally,_ he has worn himself into silent sobbing, barely twitching where he has collapsed on the ground.

* * *

Dean doesn’t know what to do.

He hadn’t even finished reading off the spell before Sam went rigid, then fell into some weird 50 Shades of Fucked-Up kneeling position. His brother is still barely reacting to him, ignoring everything he says, flinching minutely at every motion.

Helplessly, Dean sinks to his knees and gently turns Sam’s face towards his. “Sammy,” he urges quietly. “C’mon, Sam, c’mon, come back to me!”

Sam remains pliant and unresponsive for several seconds, and Dean can barely. And then his baby brother inhales sharply and begins to twitch, hyperventilating. Tears stream from Sam’s eyes as he unleashes an unholy wail, sharp and miserable enough that Dean’s legs collapse, leaving him on his ass in the motel room. Sam continues to alternately scream and sob, rocking back and forth, his face the picture of misery. Dean leaps back and stumbles to his feet, to no avail; Sam continues to cry, insensate, for what seems like an eternity. Finally, his loud sobs fade into miserable whimpers, and he rocks back and forth, curled into a ball _(at least he’s no longer trembling in that terrible kneeling position)_ , flinching and hiccupping every few seconds, tensing as though anticipating a blow.

“Sammy?” Dean asks hesitantly as his brother finally trails off into silence. Sam stares ahead blankly, his fingers twitching slightly. It’s unnerving, to see his dynamic, larger-than-life brother so still. “Sammy,” he repeats, swallowing hard. “I’m gonna pick you up, okay?” The closest thing he can think was that Sam had had some sort of flashback, and with the way he’d been panicking, it’s probably best to put him on a bed. “I’m gonna pick you up in one, two, three.”

Sam doesn’t resist as Dean slides his arms under him to lift him up, and damn if that isn’t somehow more terrifying than witnessing his brother’s meltdown. Sam is too light, too agreeable, pliant to a fault. Dean sets him down gently on the bed, watching with sick fascination as his brother moves as if on autopilot. Sam spreads his legs wide, each ankle brushing against the side of the bed, and he brings his hands up level with his neck, his hands slightly curled and his palms raised in a gesture of surrender, as if he’s waiting for Dean to wrench his arms above his head and tie them to the bed.

Dean tries not to feel sick, despite the nausea swelling in his gut. He knew that position too well from his own time in the pit. “Sammy, it’s just me,” he whispers. His brother doesn’t move, and damnit, he’s not going to cry. “I’m gonna fix this,” he promises. “I swear, I’m gonna fix this.”

* * *

He’s laid out on the bed, open and ready to be taken. The boy selfishly hopes that Lucifer will leave him for a few years after taking him this time – perhaps he and Michael will have one of their many battles, and leave him alone for a time.

He doesn’t dare meet the green eyes of Lucifer’s current form, doesn’t want to see the softness that he knows he will find there. In many ways, this process is worse when the archangel is tender – and he is very clearly feeling tender now. The boy has a sense that he should have been stripped of shame years ago, but pleasure at Lucifer’s hand always seems to make him hate himself more than he already does naturally.

But pleasure doesn’t follow in the manner in which the boy expects. Instead, Lucifer covers him with a thick, soft blanket. He says something in the language that the boy knows he should remember, and then Lucifer smooths the boy’s hair back fondly. It’s a foreign gesture, yet somehow comforting, and the boy once again fights back the urge to weep shameful tears.

Lucifer sits with him for a long while, long enough for the boy’s eyes to grow strangely heavy. He tries to keep them open – he knows he must – but they keep closing without his permission, and Lucifer doesn’t punish him for it. Finally, the boy allows himself to close his eyes, and keep them closed.

* * *

The next morning, Sam remembers his name, and he remembers English. He translates the Enochian incantation for Dean and concludes that it’s worth a shot. While Dean is off looking for an appropriate baby skull _(ugh, gross),_ he’s going to lock himself in the motel room with a stack of audiobooks – in English, thanks – until he automatically thinks in English instead of Enochian.

In his peripheral, the hallucination growls and snarls at him, spitting a mix of the English it had been using and the Enochian that Lucifer had always used in the cage, just loud enough to be audible over Sam’s headphones and the sound of Terry Pratchett as read by Stephen Briggs. That’s all right. The hallucination can’t hurt him, not really – not when Dean is around to bring him back to reality.

**Author's Note:**

> Zien othil lonshitox vomsarg - = Of my hands, I have set his power unto every one of you - .....Aaaaand the author didn't want to look up enough Enochian to create an actual reasonable incantation, and so we cut off in the middle. I keep telling myself I'm going to learn this damn language just for fun, but I haven't gotten around to it.
> 
> I was just recently introduced to the idea that Sam speaks Enochian after the cage, and I am so mad that I didn't think of that before. Anyways, it made me feel the need to write something about Sam being triggered by hearing Enochian. I might be going through a slight Sam-whump phase right now.


End file.
